Seventeen-year itch (Harley)

At the time I wrote this, even being forty didn’t seem something I needed to identify with: all the other stuff seemed far, far away. So not too many biographical clues here. 🙂 In fact, I used to precede it with ‘Love Hurts’ so that you had two diversely miserable love stories together: however, I don’t think I could get away with singing ‘I’m young, I know…’ these days.

Backup:

An older version with solo electric guitar.

Backup

Words and Music by David Harley, copyright 1986

Front tyre blew
Tax overdue
Picked up
A parking fine or two

Gas bill trouble
Rent is doubled
You say
“NOW what’s wrong with you?”

Dentures slipping
Nervous twitch
17-year-itch

I’m underpaid and overweight
So let’s go and celebrate

Who said life begins at 40?

Kids are listening
Separate beds
Bitter thoughts
In separate heads

Kids are screaming
Dogs are howling
Milk gone bad
We’re out of bread

So I leer at typists
Wonder which
Might scratch
My seventeen year itch

I must have wasted
So much time
The other side
Of 39

Monday morning
Bus queue blues
MOT
Overdue

My head is bursting
My eyes need testing
Sorry
That I snapped at you

Sorry
Sorry
Always saying sorry
Always praying
There might be some peace sometime
The other side of 65
But would it be so hard to be
Another aging divorcee?

 

David Harley

 

Scratch one lover (revisited)

Words & Music (c) David Harley

1980s studio version (2nd guitar is Don MacLeod)

Backup:

A couple of more recent versions here. 

How does it feel to be proved right
When everything just fell apart?
Does it buy you sleep through long cold nights?
Does it ease your aching heart?

Score two points, scratch one lover:
You said it’s too good to be true.
Why don’t you run back to your mother?
She always knows what’s best for you.

 

All those black moods and jealousies,
Now you know they were justified.
She looks so happy, holding hands with someone else:
Was it worth it, being right?

Hold on to all that righteous anger
But don’t forget who set it up for her.
If she’s easier in someone else’s arms,
She might be telling you you were unfair.

Score two points, scratch one lover:
Let it ride, it’s just the gypsy’s curse.
But people tend to give you what you ask for:
Maybe you only got what you deserved

Raggle Taggle Man

Words by Alison Pittaway: tune traditional, adapted and arranged by David Harley. All rights reserved.

Backup:

He was a raggle taggle man
In raggle taggle clothes
Reaching, reaching for the stars
As he wandered down the road

Once the world was at his feet
But then it fell apart
His friends becoming strangers
Who left him in the dark

His world was all in pieces
That he couldn’t shape at last
While the wind was blowing
Through the weeds and grass

People tried to reassure him
But still he lost all hope
And looking at his life
He knew he couldn’t cope

So home alone he went alone
And all alone he died
But everyone who knew him
Now remembers him with pride
He was so beautiful inside.

Oh raggle taggle, raggle taggle, raggle taggle man
Oh raggle taggle, raggle taggle, raggle taggle man…

Alison and I (among others) ran a folk club in London (at Jacksons Lane Community Centre, Highgate) for a while, and later on lived in the same part of Tottenham for several years. It’s only recently – when we haven’t met face-to-face in decades and now live in different counties – that we’ve started to collaborate on songs, though.

The tune is a variation on a tune that Jean Ritchie used to sing as ‘False Sir John’. I don’t know why, it just seemed to fit the words.

Adventures in Video – Vestopol

 

audio capture:

Backup:

Vestapol (even the name has variant spellings, almost as many as the tune) has a fascinating (if slightly confusing) history. Henry Worrall (1825-1902), an artist and musician who taught guitar at the Ohio Female College, composed a guitar piece apparently inspired by the siege of Sebastopol (1854-1855) and sometimes called ‘The Siege of Sebastopol’ or ‘Sebastopol: Descriptive Fantasie’, or – according to the printout of the sheet music I have in front of me – just ‘Sebastopol’.

Sadly, I can’t read music – well, maybe if it’s simple enough that I can play it on recorder, but that’s about as far as I can go, so I don’t know how close that piece is to the tune I’m interpreting in this video. Compared to this version, played by Macyn Taylor on parlour guitar, not very. That said, this version, played by Brian Baggett “interpreted from the original manuscript…in collaboration with the Kansas Historical Society” is just about close enough to suggest that my version does derive ultimately from the older piece. As does the resemblance of the naming of the later piece, and, even more, the fact that both pieces use the same open D (D-A-D-F#-A-D) tuning, often referred to by blues musicians as ‘Vestapol’ or ‘Vastapol’ (or similar) tuning.

It’s worth noting at this point that Worrall also published an arrangement of a popular piece called ‘Spanish Fandango’ – which, though it’s not without charm, to my ear resembles a ‘real’ fandango rather less than ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ resembles the work of Václav Tomášek – which uses an open G tuning (D-G-D-G-B-D). While I’m not aware that Worrall’s ‘Fandango’ has had anything like the same popularity or influence among blues/ragtime/folk musicians that ‘Sevastopol’ has, it’s notable that this open G tuning is often referred to as ‘fandango’ tuning. And certainly Elizabeth Cotton, who also played ‘Vestapol’, had a very similar tune called ‘Spanish Flang Dang’.

But – returning to ‘Vestapol’ – how did a formal piece apparently intended for the genteel parlours of the US get to my genteel home office/recording studio in the Wild West of Cornwall as a blues-y, train-y, ragtime-ish, clawhammer picking piece?

Stefan Grossman, who put together a three-part video to teach his own version, kind of skates over the issue as barely explainable, though a contributor to a thread on Mudcat points out perfectly reasonably that blacks and whites worked together and blacks worked as servants in the homes of white people: “They heard, they liked, they learned.” And adapted, making the work of other musicians into something of their own. So by the time John Fahey recorded the tune he still called ‘The Siege of Sevastopol’, it had developed into something significantly different Worrall’s tune, and acquired words – Robert Wilkins’s ‘Poor Boy (a long way from home) and ‘Prodigal Son’, later kidnapped by the Rolling Stones.

In fact, I sometimes follow Grossman’s lead in combining ‘Vestapol’ and ‘Poor Boy’ – he was the first person I heard do that, back in the late 60s or early 70s – or tack it onto the end of one of my own songs as with ‘Highway Fever’ here. Or ‘Castles and Kings‘, but not available as a recording right now.

However, on this occasion I decided to quit while I was ahead and just do the instrumental. And hope that it doesn’t measure up too badly to the many fine musicians who’ve taken their own shots at this well-worn but well-loved music.

David Harley

 

Birdlime

Words and music by David Harley, copyright 1973

This is a very young, very bitter song. I was actually playing with it in Garageband recently as a guitar piece, but the words came back to haunt me. I think I may change them, but  the arrangement has promise.

(Vocal is a bit ropey: heavy cold…)

Backup:

Miles of air is all I need
Jab on the starter and pick up speed
Stand back lady and watch me feed my heels

Got to get you out of my head
There’s new juice keeping my motor fed
From today I’m the fastest thing on wheels

You’re birdlime baby
And you should know
You’re bad news baby
Everywhere you go

David Harley

Lady Luck

Backup:

 

Harley aged 60-something having fun adding lead break to Harley aged 30 something. Clearly, the words have changed a bit over the years. Originally recorded on cassette sometime in the 80s, probably playing my ES175D copy or my Ovation Viper: the lead break was added with a Les Paul Special.

I rolled out my paper this morning to see what Lady Luck would say
She said “Sorry boy, no joy: It’s just another rainy day…”

Slow down, Lady Luck: why d’ya turn your back on me?
I never meant you any harm at all, but you really have your knife in me

Rolled out of bed this morning, in hopes to see some sun
But a long cool woman put the freeze on me and the good times are dead and gone

Slow down, Lady Luck: lady, won’t you let me be?
I never meant you any harm at all, but you really have your knife in me

I don’t mean to bring you down, I don’t mean to take you too deep
But I’m bored and bad and on my own and I need me a place to sleep

I think I’ll point my feet at the highway and move a little further down the line
If my shoes get stuck maybe Lady Luck will let me go this time

Words & Music by David Harley, copyright 1975

There once existed a recording of this with some percussion. Long gone. More rock than blues, in a pastiche sort of way.

Janey

Words and music (c) David Harley

backup:

 

Janey, tell me are you leaving?
Talk to me without disguise
Is it time I  turned to meet
The grey dawn rising in your eyes

Is the shadow in your sleepy eyes
The secret of your flight?
Will you leave me taking with you
The whispered secrets of the night?

When I wake some morning
Will I find myself alone?
Tell me now will tonight be the night
I’ll reach out and find you gone

Sermons in the dusty moonlight
Tell me that I should have known
I would wake some sad morning
To find my heart has turned to stone

Copyright David Harley 1972
Small Blue-Green World

Ice to the flame

Ice to the Flame: copyright David Harley, 1977

Backup:

 

Turn to the morning and trust to the dawn
With the sun in your face take the chance to be born
Leave all the leavings that time has outgrown
Turn to the morning and trust to the dawn

Ice to the flame, the sun to the rain
I am Life, I am Death, and Love is my name

Wind on the water, a blight on the heart
The fall of the dice and the turn of the card
Axe to the tree, the scythe to the corn
Turn to the morning and trust to the dawn

Ice to the flame, the sky to the sea
All is One and All is in me

Tongue to the bell, an end to the start
Trust to time, lend an ear to your heart
Wax to the candle and brass to the horn
Turn to the morning and trust to the dawn

Ice to the flame, the sun to the rain
I am Life, I am Death, and Love is my name

Rust to the sword, an edge to the blade
The Healer, the Scourge, the Price to be Paid
Love is the Singer and Love is the Song
Turn to the morning and trust to the dawn

Ice to the flame, the sky to the sea
All is One and All is in Me

Blood on the dagger, a fire in the veins
The sweet and the bitter, rainbow and rain
The Knight and the Jester, the Queen and the Pawn
Turn to the morning and trust to the dawn

Ice to the flame, the sun to the rain
I am Life, I am Death and Love is my name

The sort of song I never, ever write. But I’d had a couple of very bad years. And that’s all I’m going to say about that right now.

Heartbreaker

No, nothing to do with Dionne Warwick or the Gibb brothers.

Written back in the 80s, and turned up in my box of half-written songs today. The tune needs work, and the words have already changed a bit since the recording. And yes, it was intended for a female singer, but I don’t have one handy right now.

Backup:

Alternative take:

Backup:

Heartbreaker (Harley)

Look at you – you’re such a heartbreaker

You’ve not yet said a word that anyone has heard
You know that all you have to do is smile
To capture any male – I’ve never seen you fail
To captivate every man in miles

Look at you – you’re such a foxy lady

Your table manners won’t win prizes; it’s really not surprising
That you’ve got broth all down your bib
But all your male relations are stood at battle stations
With the Kleenex to wipe down that greasy chin

Look at you – you’re such a heartbreaker

I can’t turn my back for a minute and a half
Without your creating mess
You’re taking years off my life – your dad says “Leave her, she’s all right”
But if he cleaned up I might be more impressed

Look at you – you’re such a heartbreaker

If I’d as many men as you to give my kisses to
I wouldn’t have much reason to complain
You’re a pain sometimes, it’s true, but I’d be heartbroken too
To be without you now, it’s so plain

PUT THAT DOWN, YOU LITTLE… heartbreaker…

All rights reserved.

David Harley